Any Other Name
by Intricacy
Summary: ANALYSIS UP! Years later, she reflects on why she named her daughter Rose. Because she remembers. Because she doesn't want to forget. She had given his soul back with a kiss, for his soul was sin. Marlowe was right. slight RoseScorpius Oneshot


**Any Other Name**

_Years later, she reflects on why she named her daughter Rose. Because first love dies hard. Because she remembers. And because she didn't want to forget. DHr, slight RoseScorpius_

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter. Very few lines also taken from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, Marlowe's Doctor Faustus, Homer's Odyssey, and Dante's Inferno. I don't own those lines, either. Also has references to some Greek Mythology (Trojan War) that you might need to know to get the best effect. xD

Random urge to write this coming home from a Shakespeare group project. I didn't double check the stories referenced in here, so they might not be entirely accurate or word-for-word.

Also that this story is a one-shot, doesn't go into all that much detail and it was meant to be brief. Thus you'll find that thins have a fast pace in here.

But besides _all _that, hope you enjoy!

Props to those who can find the lines that belong to each of the aforementioned books! (Most of them are pretty obvious though. Teehee.)

--

Two women – mother and daughter – alone in the house, a single shared candle that lit the room in dark shadows, small smiles revealing secrets, eyes dancing in memory. After all, it's a quiet night after a nervous dawn and a celebrated evening, where thoughts settle down. The daughter looked up from the worn blanket – the baby blanket she'd kept from her childhood days, now taken back out as one last chance to revel in her innocent days.

"Mum?" the daughter said, her eyes slightly uncertain, her fingers playing with the frayed edges of the blanket.

The mother smiled. "Yes, Rose?"

She hesitated slightly before daring to continue. "Who – who was your first love?"

Hermione smiled slightly before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her daughter's ear. "Your father is my only love."

"He _is_ your only love now – but who _was_ your first love?" Rose persisted.

Her smile flickered slightly. "Ron was my first love, and is my only love."

"It was always only you and him?" Rose looked doubtful. "And no one else?"

With a sigh, Hermione pressed her lips against her daughter's forehead. "No one else," she breathed.

_But once upon a time…_

They met one day in the back of the library, in that one far corner that no one knew existed, because no sane person would bother to walk the stretch of dusty bookshelves and explore the crooked turns of the Hogwarts' library labyrinth to locate this lonely corner – and if anyone else ever had, the tables in the front of the library were far more convenient and didn't require a map to find.

She chose the place for its quiet, as a place to study and be undisturbed by noises or friends who might possibly barge in ungracefully, crashing her train of thought as they so unceremoniously declare that they need her for one sport or another.

He chose the place for its seclusion, as a place reveal another nature of himself that he would never dare show anyone – a side of him that his mother had trained out of him, a side of him he feared to reveal to his father, no matter how much he admired him. Because even arrogant bastards can't pull their act constantly, especially when the weight of murder antagonizes their mind.

For months they both broke into the serenity of this corner table, taking advantage of it for their own purposes. For months they never crossed each other's paths, following their own accord and schedule that never conflicted. But sixth year was already three quarters over and summer still seemed so far off, yet so heavily anticipated. The library was filling more and more by the day, the end-of-the-year exams approaching with every dutiful mark of the calendar.

She had been headed toward the corner – what she thought was her _own_ special corner, following the steps she knew so well that she could navigate with her eyes closed. She held her books in one hand, her heavy backpack with seams ready to burst slung over one shoulder.

She was startled out of her wits as she rounded the last corner, hearing an aggravated voice floating from the corner. But it was impossible – only a trick of her imagination. No one else knew about this spot.

"Sing in me, muse, and through tell me a story!"

It was his words that startled her the most, forcing her to stop in her tracks. The voice was familiar, and annoyingly so. Her brows furrowed as she quickened her steps and quietly approached the corner, a head of platinum blond hair catching her attention. Later reflecting, she thought it was best that she had been running late that day by an hour, for if she had been the one in their corner and he had been the one to intrude, nothing would have ever happened. He had too much pride.

"Malfoy?" she gasped, horrified, dumbstruck, her books slipping from her hand and falling to the floor, her neatly stacked notes now scattered.

He looked up quickly from his books. From the looks of things, he had been writing their Potions essay due the day after the next. She remembered the prompt even to this day – _What potion of your own creation would be most useful, and what are some key ingredients that would be used?_ It was a difficult one, even causing _her_ to stumble in all three drafts. She didn't notice that the textbook was turned to a page on poisons.

"Granger?" he said, his face paling. "What are you doing here?"

His voice was accusing, and it offended her. Her temper flared irrationally – something that only Ron and he could do – as she said hotly, "This is public property! It doesn't _belong_ to you – a foreign concept, I understand, for such a prodigal, prejudiced – " She fell short suddenly as her eyes narrowed, watching him intently. "You've read Homer."

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he scoffed. "Homer?" he repeated. "I'm supposed to know what that is? You speak such nonsense. Expected from a Mudblood."

Thoroughly annoyed, she glared at him hard. "Don't play dumb with me. I heard you. You've read Homer."

Perhaps it was her intimidating glower that made him concede, or perhaps it was the fact that he knew she was right that forced his submission. "Fine," he snapped, equally annoyed as he turned back to his books. "I've read Homer. What's the big deal?"

She sat down in front of him and pulled his Potions book away. He looked up indignantly, opening his mouth to speak, though she didn't let him, saying promptly, "Homer's a Muggle."

"I know he is. I'm not entirely stupid, Granger, even if I'm not a know-it-all Mudblood like _you_," he said, aggravated as he lunged for his book.

Hermione kept it out of his reach. "You call me a Mudblood," she spat, "though you recite the famous opening lines of a Muggle-composed poem." He had no response but only looked on stonily. Pressing on, she demanded, "How? When? Why?"

"Speak coherently, Granger, and I might give you an answer," he answered cuttingly.

Hermione frowned at him, though her anger at his all-too-convenient confusion was suppressed by her curiosity. "You never struck me as one to read a Muggle poem. When did you read it, and why?"

He was quiet for the longest moment, and it took all of her strength to stay seated and not rip out his hair from the suspense. Finally, he relented under her hard gaze and said in a low tone, "My mother was a fan of literature. She made me read the classics of both Wizarding and Muggle cultures. It's… almost something of a second nature now."

She laughed quietly, though there was nothing even close to humorous in the situation. "And still you're prejudiced against us Muggleborns."

"You have your anomalies," he allowed, his grey eyes serious, "and then you have the rest."

She could tell this is what he truly believed in. Cloying disgust suffocated her chest at the notion – that he fancied Muggleborns inferior to Purebloods. She suddenly stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "Well, then, good day, Malfoy."

He looked surprised at her sudden good-bye of sorts as she bent over to collect her books. He had barely recollected himself when she was already headed out of the corner, back into the labyrinth of bookshelves. He had barely realized that his hand had slipped around her wrist, stopping her from leaving.

Shocked, she turned around, her surprise evident in her face. He didn't know what had consumed him to do it – perhaps intuition, a desperate plea of something he didn't understand. But it was done regardless, and it couldn't be retracted.

"I've always considered you to be an anomaly, actually," he admitted quietly. The words poured from him – words he never even knew he possessed – so easily, escaping to be free.

_Almost like…_

She was frozen up against a bookshelf. His eyes were desperate, but for what she didn't know – for her response? For her to understand? Yet it was something she had never even _imagined_ to hear him say, for it was far too ludicrous to be true. This was the boy she hated from first year. This was the first person she'd ever slapped. This was the immature bully who always stepped out of his way to rise her temper. Who took care to ensure that she always glowered in his direction out of hurt and anger.

This was the one person she truly, truly hated, and the confession came so suddenly.

"You – " she stuttered, unable to form a coherent sentence. "You can't possibly."

His eyes almost looked hurt. He faltered for a moment before asking, "Why not?"

"You're – you're a pureblood. A Slytherin. Your family – and – and _me_, I'm – " she broke off, desperately flustered.

He cut through her stutters, reciting in a low tone that could have been hiding something (Was it hurt? Hope?), "Two houses, both a like in dignity… From ancient grudge break to new mutiny…" He lifted a finger and traced her cheekbone, a short burst of laughter resounding from his chest. "A rose by any other name would not smell as sweet."

She looked up at his words. "Not?"

He shook his head, a grin playing at his lips. "You make it sweeter."

Hermione hesitated. Her emotions swam in a maelstrom around her – this was Malfoy. _Malfoy_. She had never fancied him to be romantic – and to _her_. Flattered and light-headed, she was, yes – but along with it came a dark… dread?

It was too surreal to believe in.

"Malfoy – " she began, but he hurriedly cut her off, his grey eyes begging.

She never saw him look so desperate before.

He turned his head away. "Granger, just pretend for a moment… There is no war. There are no sides. No missions, no expectations, no threats, no prejudices."

He was exhausted, she realized. He was asking for just a moment to live outside reality – to do something so bizarre that even dreams would deny – before they returned to their heavy tasks. She couldn't blame him. She had longed for a moment like this, too.

For the briefest of moments, she felt a connection between them. Two enemies fatigued together in need of air. Today, there is no Dark Wood or True Path, only grey. Tomorrow, things will return to normal.

Hesitantly, she lifted her hand to turn his face back to hers. "Draco," she tried. The name tasted foreign on her tongue.

_No Horcruxes, no fear…_

She cracked a smile, and his eyes lowered to her lips. "It's okay." To her, it was the sorriest attempt she could conjure as a response, but her mind ran dry of all literacy.

_No deaths, no Inferi…_

"It's okay," he repeated, his eyes still trained to her lips. She felt her heart pound faster and heavier against her ribcage and her head began to spin.

_Let everything slip away…_

"Steal my soul away with a kiss," he breathed, and slowly – tantalizingly – he leaned forward, lightly brushing his lips against hers.

Her eyes closed. His hand was making its way around her waist, the other behind her neck. She shivered at his touch and her eyes drifted closed – a response that should have been forbidden. Her defenses had dropped, leaving the newly discovered elements of admiration open in her mind – that he knew and read Muggle stories, and seemed to know them better than most Muggles themselves. In that sense, she supposed in her delirious state, he had a right of sorts to feel that Muggles were below him.

His lips were still so close and but still refused to meet hers one more time. Almost as if he were… waiting? With a small smile, she whispered back, "Then have my lips the sin they have took."

She could almost feel his lips turn slightly in what might have been a smile as well. "Wrong story," he chided in a gentle manner.

"No," Hermione corrected. "Our story."

She heard a small laugh escape from him. "Then give me back my soul." With that, he lowered his lips again onto hers, not asking this time in the teasing manner as he had earlier – but with a certain passion that she never knew he – _Malfoy_ – was capable of, that made her respond in equal fervor in excitement as her hands went to his hair.

She couldn't help but notice that the kiss tasted of anguish.

At last they broke away, their foreheads touching as they slowly opened their eyes, their hands sliding into each other's grasp. "He was wrong," he said, his eyes sparkling with a hint of a smile, as if he persuaded himself to forget. "Yours is the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium."

It was only a delusion. A moment for breath. She broke away, shaking her head as their intertwined fingers fell apart. She retrieved her books, swinging them over one shoulder. As she was about to leave, she hesitated and turned around, seeing him – broken, hesitant – and smiled sadly. His sparkling eyes had faded.

"Wrong character," she chided softly, returning to him his potions book.

He exhaled and averted his gaze, his hand opening and closing as if trying to get used to the absence of something he held for so long. She barely heard it, but it was there: the only "thank you" she had ever heard him utter.

"You're welcome."

Nothing had happened. They had only fallen into a hole in time. It changed nothing.

Yet regardless, she couldn't forget.

It followed her even years later, a reminiscent memory that she still hardly believes.

When she found out that she was pregnant with a girl, she had so wanted to name her Helen. Helen, Helen – it sounded so perfect to her. But at the last minute, she wanted it changed. She didn't want her daughter to be named Helen.

It was _too_ perfect. It didn't suit right with her. It wouldn't fit.

And a rose by any other name would not smell as sweet.

She smiled, blinking back the tears that threatened to surface as she buried her head in her daughter's hair. She was glad that Rose was marrying Scorpius.


End file.
